The Tycoon and the Texan (18 page)

Nick plodded after McCall, stomping across mesquite-dotted, yucca-sprinkled pastures where a herd of Herefords grazed, paying no attention to the couple traipsing through their domain.

She stopped in a low-lying area near a stream, squatted, and raked away the dead vegetation from around a log, before tossing aside a dozen or so rocks.

Standing, she jammed the shovel into the moist ground. A second push with her booted foot, and the sharpshooter sunk halfway down. Nick doubted if even the strongest man on one of his construction crews could have shoved the spade to such a depth with so little effort as the feisty Texan who hadn't even broken a sweat.

Nick leaned against a tree and stuck his thumb in his Levi's pocket. Best to let her work off some of her fury over him punching out Colton, then he'd approach her to have a talk about their feelings.

In the meantime, if she planned to bury him, at least he could enjoy the great view of her butt as she lifted more moist soil from the ground.

Without looking up, she knelt and scooped out the area with her hands. Sorting through the humus carefully, she tossed a clump of something dark and squirmy in the bucket, before topping it with two handfuls of soil.

When finished, she calculatingly thrust the spade erect in the dirt and turned around, facing Nick. “It's your turn, Slugger. Now I can stare at your ass for a while.” She retrieved the pail and set out toward the stream.

Nick didn't miss her double meaning of
ass
and yanked the shovel from the ground. Damn, what a shame to break away from such a luscious sight as her behind. What the hell was she digging for? Worms? Big, fat squiggly night crawlers! But that was certainly better than watching her dig his grave.

“Darling, you forgot your broom.” Nick let out a triumphant laugh and struck out after her, knowing his words only served to raise her ire. But what did it matter if she was about to murder him anyway?

“Nick, I said you could come, but I didn't want to carry on a conversation,” she said firmly. “I'm here for fresh air and to think.”

Since she didn't want any conversation, Nick leaned on the sharpshooter and refrained from responding, but just watched the pretty Texan.

She got on her hands and knees near a log beneath the low-hanging branches of the skeleton of a dead cottonwood and retrieved a fishing pole and a metal box.

Marching to the stream, she plopped the tackle down on the bank. Stretching the line taut, she tested for strength, claimed a squiggly worm, and threaded it on the dangling hook at the end of the pole. “Don't stand there like you've never seen a woman put a worm on a hook before. Fish or cut bait. In Texas that means—”

“To either fish or get the hell out of your sight.”

“You got it, Slugger.”

“I think I'll go back to the house and visit with Miss Lola Ruth. It's very obvious that I'm a distraction you don't want or need right now.” He tried to add respect to his voice, but under the current circumstances, most likely he'd failed at that, too.

“Don't trip on the cattle guard as you exit.”

Nick turned to retreat, but couldn't resist adding a barb. Over his shoulder he said, “And by the way, that hook is too big, unless you're fishing for barracudas.”

Not responding verbally, McCall aggressively whipped the fishing line over her head, preparing to cast out into the water.

“Son of a bitch!” Nick yelped. Pain shot from his hip to his brain and back with lightning speed. As though shackled to the line, he froze in place and squeezed his eyes closed until the initial pain subsided. “What are you trying to do, use me for bait?”

Damn if he wasn't hooked like a big-ass bass in the cheek of his butt. Another half an inch higher and she'd have hit his pocket. But, no, the hook went through denim and cotton to latch onto a hunk of raw flesh. The fishing line arched overhead, ending at McCall's rod.

He slipped his hand down his hip. Oh yeah, good and deep.

“Nick, I'm sorry—so sorry.” She dropped the fishing rod.

“I told you the hook was too big.” Nick winced in pain.

“It was an accident. Honestly, I didn't mean to—”

“Hey, baby, if you wanted me to stay, all you had to do was say so.”

“We need to get that hook out, Nick. Sit down on that log.” She motioned toward a tree heavy with branches.

Nick raised a questioning eyebrow.

“I guess that wasn't the brightest idea I've ever had. Lean over. No, on second thought, lay facedown on the grass.”

Nick obliged, seeking the comfort of a shady, grassy area protected by a grove of trees.

Tin rattled when she opened the box. He glanced over her shoulder and saw her hold up a pair of needle-nose pliers.

“Oh no, you don't!” He struggled to stand, only to have her push him facedown, kneel above him, and clamp his thighs together with her knees.

“Settle down. I'm going to snip the hook in two, then you can take off your jeans and I'll dig out the remainder—”

“Dig out?”

“Well, that's kinda inaccurate. Not digging really, but cutting it out.”

“Maybe I should go to a doctor.”

“No. There's nothing to getting a hook out. You can go to a doctor if an infection sets in,” she said in a cool, thoughtful voice, but not quite as caring as he would have liked.

She was enjoying this way too much and Nick knew it.

“Hmm, guess I could stitch you up with fishing line.”

“No,” Nick bellowed, playing along, although the pain was not a laughing matter.

“Then I'd better take you over to Doc Chalmers.”

“Does he have an emergency room?”

“No. He's a vet, but I'll be glad to call him, if you'd like. Or better yet, I'll get Lola Ruth to come help. She's a wiz at this kind of thing.” A teasing tone came into her voice. “You oughtta see her skin a catfish.”

“No, just get to work. Why do you have pliers with you?”

“I just told you. To clean catfish,” she answered with a touch of authority.

Nick shivered. He knew how to dress out catfish and it wasn't a pleasant thought. Envisioning McCall ripping off the skin with pliers sent a second tremor through his body.

Snip. The hook separated.

“Now pull down your jeans, so I can get a better look. Guess you'll need to lower your Fruit of the Looms, too. Be careful not to snag the fabric on the pointy part still stuck in your, uh, fanny. As a matter of fact, stand still.”

Halfway following orders, he stood up and unzipped his Levi's, only to have McCall insert her hand between his shorts and backside, slowly sliding her palm over his hip, down his buttocks until she found the hook. Even as bad as it stung, the warmth of her soft, helpful fingers searching his sensitive flesh excited him. Carefully, she separated the fabric from the hook and helped him shuck his jeans.

Stepping back a few feet, she issued a cocky smile, openly admiring his shiny heinie exposed to the hot Texas sun.

Making a cushion with his Levi's, Nick laid facedown on the prairie grass and prepared for the inevitable. “Okay, Doc Holliday, go to it.”

She ripped open an alcohol pad and dabbed it around the hook, before wiping off her hands and cleaning the nose of the pliers.

“Hold on, Slugger.”

Nick latched onto a handful of grass.

McCall latched onto a handful of ass.

She yanked.

He yelped.

The pliers held the metal in a death grip.

She swabbed the bloody wound with a second alcohol pad before applying a Band-Aid on the wound and slapping his unscathed cheek with her free hand. “Good as new. Get your drawers on, Slugger.”

“Thanks.” Nick pulled on his pants while McCall returned her makeshift medical gear to the tackle box.

Touching his tender buttocks, he offered her a whimsical grin. “You certainly put a different spin on ‘turning another cheek.'”

Fate offered him a stroke of genius and a damn good one even if he thought so himself. It had worked on the boat, so how could it fail him now?

“Mac, I feel woozy. I'll feel better if I lie down for a bit.” Like a wounded soldier succumbing to a battlefield injury, Nick eased toward a mattress of grass and leaves.

No doubt his plan worked, when he saw concern on her face. McCall helped him down on the earthen pallet. Reaching across to smooth back his hair from his face, one breast rested familiarly against his chest.

“Just lay your head back. It'll be okay.” She butterfly-kissed him. “I promise.”

Suddenly, McCall found herself under him as he flipped over on her, covering her with his firm, hot, needy body.

“You recovered pretty fast for someone in the throes of death,” she whispered.

“Oh yeah. I'm a fast healer.” He smothered her lips with demanding mastery.

Her thoughts spun and waned on a soft wispy cloud.

Nick's earlier actions had irritated her, so why did she want to toss out her stash of discount coupons for Double Whoppers and take up escargot when she didn't even like snails? Why was she angry with him in the first place? He was making it hard for her to remember. A few honey-laden words of love and some magical kisses had shortcircuited her brain, sending her heart into a fare-thee-well, ring-tailed tooter.

She continued to search her mind trying to recall why she shouldn't thoroughly enjoy his moist, passionate, and very sensual kisses.

Then she remembered.

McCall pressed her hands against his chest, separating their sweltering bodies that neared the boiling point.

They would never be free to explore their true attraction to one another until she had answers. Too many questions hovered around, sucking the life from their relationship.

“Nick, I'm ready to talk.”

“You picked one hell of a time to want to start talking.” Nick lifted upward, using his elbows for support.

“I know. But sex isn't the answer.”

“But . . . it's . . . a . . . good . . . place . . . to . . . start.” Between each word he planted kisses on her shoulders, neck, and face. “You have to admit, we've
almost
had some of the best sex of our lives.”

Girding herself with resolve, McCall fought off the urge to forget talking and start acting out her passion for Nick. “It's time we get things squared away between us.”

“I was thinking of something hard between us but it isn't square.”

Nick rolled to his back, tucked his arms behind his head and obviously ignored her scathing look while keeping an eye on the sky.

McCall studied the sky, too. It looked like melted cotton candy swirled over a bed of blueberries, which meant only one thing to her, a storm was brewing somewhere over in the west. She thought more about his statement then said, “You're cute, but why don't we begin by me asking you a question?” This bought her time. She made a silent prayer that when it was his turn he'd steer clear of some of the things she'd prefer not to discuss at the moment.

“To begin with, why are you so scared of commitments? And so competitive, and wanting things you can't have?” McCall asked.

“That's a question. Actually, two questions, not a beginning.”

“Good, so you know what a question is. Nick, if you're serious about exploring our relationship, we've got to share our true feelings. If you aren't comfortable discussing them with me, then we really don't have much of a chance to see what comes next with us.”

“Okay, we'll share, but isn't that a girlie thing?”

“Either take this seriously or I'm outta here.” McCall struggled to her feet.

Before she reached her full stature, Nick grabbed her hand and pulled her down to him. “You deserve answers, but only if I can ask questions, too.”

“So, we're back to ‘I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours?'”

“No. We're beyond that,” he protested. “I've already seen yours and you've seen mine.”

“Get serious or I promise I'm gone—”

“Okay. So you think I have issues?” He raked his fingers through his hair and twitched his nose. “Well . . .”

She shot him a weary glare that reeked of
I'm truly sorry I took the hook out of your butt. For all I care, you can stand up the rest of your life.

“Okay. I admit I was scared of commitments for the same reason that I'm competitive. I can't handle failure. It's a weakness, and I think it all goes back to being raised without a father. Mac, all I wanted while I was growing up was to have a father. I think every successful endeavor was for my dad's benefit. Just in case he ever came back, he'd be proud of me and want me to be his son.”

McCall choked back the lump in her throat and imposed willpower to control her tears as she watched the hurt ooze from Nick like a festering wound. She remained silent, touching his cheek, erasing a lone tear with her thumb.

He continued. “After seeing what my mother did to my father, I didn't think I wanted a woman 24/7. That way I'd be protected from hurt and hurting another person. A commitment leads to an engagement, on to marriage, and eventually a family. I couldn't afford to hurt someone else like I'd been hurt. I damn sure didn't want to be responsible for bringing an innocent baby into the world to live like I did—always looking over my shoulder and wondering if any guy who paid attention to me could be my real father.”

“And, you want all of this now?”

“Hell, yes. All of a sudden I see things differently. I want to have a kid—kids. I didn't with Lauren.”